


Stifled

by linguamortua



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Choking, Inappropriate Behavior, M/M, Masturbation, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: Orson Krennic prefers an unconventional method of stress relief.





	Stifled

**Author's Note:**

> Starting writing this in December 2016. Finally finished it.

‘Do it harder,’ said Krennic, irritatingly still quite able to speak despite the hand on his throat. Behind him, his Death Trooper faltered. Krennic’s erection flagged a little. ‘Do it harder,’ he said, ‘or I’ll have you reconditioned so hard you’ll piss blood.’ The faceless man obeyed, finally putting enough pressure on Krennic’s throat that the world started to blur around the edges. Krennic jerked himself briskly, left-handed, the way he always did, his right fist knuckle-down on his desk to brace himself. His upper lip curled back when he came into his palm.

The bare hand receded, and Krennic heard the plasteel sound of a gauntlet being replaced.

‘Director?’ Krennic was irritated all over again by the supplicated, whining quality to the man’s voice. Ingratiating, that was the word.

‘Get the fuck out of my quarters.’

‘Immediately, Director.’ Krennic didn’t turn as the soldier left. He felt a little squalid, afterwards, as he always did. Galen’s communicator was only a touch away, and he would have no choice but to report to Krennic but then—what? Distance, restrained civility and the looming absence of Lyra a chasm between them.

Krennic didn’t like to get sentimental, but he could appreciate Galen’s dilemma. It was hard to fuck a man who’d shot your wife, he supposed. Galen had always been a tiresome romantic. He poured himself a drink and picked up the duty roster.

* * *

‘This is shit,’ Krennic told the huddled cluster of engineers. ‘How dare you bring me substandard work?’

‘Director, it’s a problem—’

‘You’re damned right it’s a problem.’

‘Galen Erso—’

‘Galen Erso has been dispatched to Scarif on urgent business. Is it so hard to do your jobs in his absence?’

‘His work is pivotal, sir—’

‘He’s one man!’ Krennic could feel his pulse beating erratically in his throat. Damn Galen. Damn him for being so brilliant, so indispensable, so untouchable. Damn his absent brat of a daughter and his dead, harpy wife. Damn them all for their stiff-necked pride.

He had the start of a vicious tension headache.

‘If you please, Director—’ said one of the engineers, shuffling towards him with a sycophantic air. Krennic turned on his heel and stalked out of the room before he did something rash. In the narrow hallway he felt trapped. It made him snarl at his bodyguard, snap at the maintenance technician repairing a lift.

His personal report to the Grand Moff was significantly overdue. This made him look sloppy, a trait Krennic despised in himself and others. And yet, a report indicating that there was nothing to report was also unacceptable. The incompetence of his personnel was reflecting poorly on him; now, in the height of his power, in the golden days of his brilliance, he was being sabotaged by ineptitude. Not for nothing had he sought to acquire Galen Erso, although he would rather have let the man rot on his backwater farm.

* * *

The inevitable meeting with the Grand Moff. Krennic stood stiff and sweating in his best dress whites. Tarkin's quarters were too warm. Whenever he came to inspect progress on the project, the heating systems were specially programmed for his apartments. Krennic found the heat intolerable, but he consoled himself with the certainty that Tarkin's preference for the temperature was a sure sign of the degradation of his ancient body. He, Orson Krennic, had a vitality and strength that required no concessions. If he had to stand here and swelter, it was but a minor inconvenience.

‘Work is slow,’ said Tarkin. His hands were clasped behind his back and he was looking out the viewport into the vastness of space. He didn’t even deign to look at Krennic as he spoke.

‘A project of this magnitude inevitably presents complexities,’ said Krennic.

‘A man of your reputation can surely render the complex straightforward,’ Tarkin countered.

‘Erso remains a problem.’

‘Your problem, in fact, Director. You requested him specifically.’

‘I am confident in my ability to harness his skills.’

‘A confidence I cannot say I share.’

Krennic focused all his energies on not visibly grimacing. He stood with perfect posture, waiting for Tarkin to continue. Over the years he had worked to curb some of his natural anger. It was critical to do so now, so as not to rile Tarkin. The old badger was wily. He wanted Krennic off balance, and Krennic refused to indulge him.

Tarkin finally turned and slowly paced towards Krennic. He stopped a few feet away, steepled his fingers thoughtfully.

‘Tell me, Director. To what end did you engage a former paramour to lead the engineering of this project?’

‘A brief dalliance in university hardly constitutes a relationship.’

‘Men have been demoted for less.’

‘I was not at the time a soldier.’

‘Quite. A convenient technicality.’

‘After twenty-five years I find myself unmoved by the man,’ Krennic lied. ‘I wanted only the best for this most pivotal weapon.’

‘Your confidence is touching.’

‘It’s not misplaced.’

‘Time will tell.’

Krennic swallowed, trying not to make it obvious. Tarkin would take any opportunity to remove him from the Death Star. Krennic had not attended the right schools, shaken the right hands, grown up with the correct scions of noble houses. He was not a politically impressive choice. Throughout his career, Krennic had marketed himself as a man of drive and ambition and technical skill. His unorthodox new approach was a strength. He said as much.

‘Know, Grand Moff, that my choices in personnel reflect only my deep desire to serve the Empire and his Imperial Majesty. My team has been chosen for optimal synergy and the highest possible knowledge of experimental advanced weapons technologies. We are doing radical work here, sir, radical work.’ His voice shook a little with emotion; he reined himself in.

‘Don’t let me stifle your natural flair,’ said Tarkin, with his habitual thin smile. His thin, papery hand drifted up to his collar button. Did the bastard know? Krennic knew that he would have to be very careful from now on. Discreet. It was necessary now to focus on the work and not allow himself to be sidelined by petty, carnal distractions.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Tarkin waved a thin hand and turned away.

‘Dismissed.’

* * *

‘Fuck.’ Krennic’s knees gave out, and he caught himself on his desk, smearing spunk along the edge of it. Good hands, that Death Trooper. Rough; strong. Krennic had hardly had time to jerk himself to climax before the pressure on his carotid half knocked him out. Dangerous, to be so close to unconsciousness with one of his underlings. Risky.

A risk he had to take, though. Couldn’t be a peer—the political capital he’d give away would be astounding. Once upon a time, Krennic’s ability to fuck his way through an academy class had been legendary. He missed it, the unique power over another person that sex represented. Galen—but Galen was no longer an option. At least Death Troopers took a suicide oath to him. And if necessary they could be reconditioned, or sent to a tiny, shitbox planet to guard a garden shed. _Fuck._ There was nothing more to think on the topic. He had been through it over and over. Promised himself he would abstain, and immediately broken his promise.

Krennic swallowed gingerly, and waved at the door.

‘Leave, get out, go,’ he said, blindly snapping his fingers to hurry the man.

He poured himself a drink with a shaking hand. That would be the last time, he promised himself. The very last time.


End file.
